


wrapped around your finger

by masonjars



Category: Dangan Ronpa - All Media Types, Super Dangan Ronpa 2
Genre: Blood Play, F/F, Hair Brushing, Oral Sex, Service Kink, breath play, genderbend au, idk it's melodramatic like what i usually write, self deprecation, small scene where a character encourages another to cut them with a pair of scissors
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-04-24
Updated: 2020-04-24
Packaged: 2021-03-01 19:41:03
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,478
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23812480
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/masonjars/pseuds/masonjars
Summary: Servant brushes Kamukura's hair and muses on what servitude means to her.Written for KomaHina Week 2020: Day 3 for the prompt 'Genderbend'.
Relationships: Kamukura Izuru/Komaeda Nagito
Comments: 1
Kudos: 92
Collections: KomaHina Week 2020





	wrapped around your finger

**Author's Note:**

> i wrote this in around a day because i didn't like what i had originally wrote for the prompt, im trying to get better about posting my writing and making myself share the things i write more. so idk please enjoy my gays

The servant laid out her tools delicately on the bed. A brush, a bottle of spray-in conditioner, and a small pair of scissors were placed neatly beside her as she sat herself behind Izuru. Her black hair had gotten increasingly unruly with time and negligence, becoming slicked with oil at the roots from not bathing. She finally was convinced to bathe today, sat in the bath like a petulant child as Komaeda rinsed the shampoo out. 

She slips a towel over Izuru’s shoulders. She’s seen hairdressers do that, so she assumes that’s the proper form. Izuru will tire of this soon, she knows, so she hurries to spray on the conditioner. 

The first sweep of the brush catches a knot easily, the brush almost getting stuck in the tangled strands. She hears Izuru sigh and she rushes to spray more, holding the problem strands in her hands. The knot feels like steel wool and each attempt to brush it out leads to more ripping of black strands of hair. 

“This is torture,” Izuru says, but she stays put. Komaeda sits in awe at times, at a brain so talented and so intelligent that it abandons the trivial things like hair brushing and bathing. That’s why people like her are on this Earth. To supplement, to support, to hold the talented up on the pedestals they deserve. This worthless body that was given a divine purpose, to serve a woman whose more than she’ll ever be. Luck is a funny thing.

“I’ll try to go as fast as I can,” she says, finally managing to work out the tangle. Her hair doesn’t want this to be easy and it feels like the cheap hair brush is going to get swallowed as she continues, Izuru sighing at particularly embedded knots. 

“You’re doing well,” Komaeda praises, half of her head finished with Kamukura sitting almost docilely. She sits with her hands in her lap like a schoolchild and a face that shows nothing, that unreadable painted doll face that Komaeda wants to see twisted in pleasure at her hands--she’s truly a pathetic excuse for a servant, thinking of her own pleasure instead of the task she has been given.

Kamukura says nothing. She must think this is worth doing, which sends sparks of excitement through Komaeda’s body. She’s useful, she’s useful, she’s useful, the mantra repeats in her head like a scratched record.

She brushes out the rest of Izuru’s head happily, her hair looking frizzy but significantly more well kept. She runs her fingers through it, the rare feeling of her fingers being able to glide through silky strands without a hitch. She lets her fingers run over the edge of the scar on Izuru’s scalp, the skin bumpy and uneven. She feels Izuru’s body tense and she drops her hand quickly. 

“You can touch it,” Izuru says, breaking the silence. She knows where the scar was from. When Junko was alive, she said families don’t keep secrets. Families know the most intimate details of each other, the ugliest details, the parts of you that make you want to dig out your brain lobes with a carving knife, and they still love you. She reaches a shaky finger back to Izuru’s scalp, tracing the scar that leads like a road across her cranium. She imagines the brain working under her finger and feels almost giddy, to be privileged like this, to be so close she could rip open the scar and reach inside.

“You’re thinking something strange,” Izuru says, her head turning, “I can tell, when you shake like that.”

Komaeda retracts her finger like she’d been touching an open flame. Her worthless body betraying her, like always.

“I was admiring you, that’s all,” she says. 

“Your admiration feels like thinly veiled lust,” Kamukura says, but she doesn’t sound angry. She doesn’t sound like anything, the most unnerving trait, her monotone voice giving nothing away.

“Maybe my admiration can be both,” she says, and then she grips the handles of the little scissors she’d found, “I could trim your hair, if you’d like.”

“You know how to?” Izuru questions. Komeada opens them once or twice, watching the tiny blades work.

“I’ve read instructions. You could stand to lose a few inches, couldn’t you?” 

“Please do not make me bald,” Izuru says, and she follows Komaeda’s lead to the bathroom. 

She has Izuru look down, a trick she had read in a hairdressing book for this occasion, and takes the ends of her hair between her fingers. She can see the dead ends, split and fraying, easily in her fingers and tries to imitate the motions she’s seen hairdressers use with their scissors. It looks less horrible than she expected when she backs away to examine her work, her cuts mostly even. Izuru’s hair looks more alive than she’s ever seen it and she feels a swell of pride in her chest at being the one who took care of her. Others can only dream of devoting themselves to such a perfect being, but they’ll never get the chance. She’s so lucky, so lucky she’ll probably die tomorrow in a horrible way and--“Are you finished?” Izuru snaps, watching Komaeda’s reflection in the little mirror above the sink.

She nods and places the scissors on the counter as Izuru turns to face her, her hand wrapping itself in the length of chain hanging off her collar. And maybe this is the best part of serving, Izuru yanking her forward by the chain to kiss her and her collar tightening around her throat until she can’t breathe. She wonders if one day Izuru will finally just kill her this way, leave her dead body in some abandoned apartment in Towa City. That would be a holy death. 

Izuru lets go. She gulps in big breaths of air and feels the drool dripping down the side of her mouth. Izuru picks up the scissors, examines them, turns them over in her hands.

“I’d like to try something,” she says. Komaeda stands to attention, hanging on her words like a prayer.

She sits on the edge of the bathtub and pulls on her chain, signalling her to sit down at her feet. She goes clumsily, long and lanky limbs folding until she’s between Izuru’s open legs. She can’t help but rub her face into the soft skin there, pressing her lips up her inner thighs towards the hem of her robe.

Izuru pulls the chain to keep her focused, forcing her head to strain upwards. She opens the scissors, the sharp blades extended at length, and forces them into Komaeda’s hand. One blade presses against the pale skin of Izuru's upper thigh, and she understands what she wants. She presses down, the blade slicing a thin line easily. Izuru hisses and the blood pools to the surface of the cut, marking her milky skin with vivid red. The blood tastes like steel in her mouth, Izuru’s skin warm against her tongue, and she drops the scissors on the floor because she is a bad servant, who wants to take and take and take. Her shaky hands open Izuru’s robe and she lets her, Komaeda scrambling to her knees to suck one of her nipples in her mouth. The cut continues to bleed, the blood dripping down her leg like she had cut herself shaving. 

“Down, dog,” Izuru says, and Komaeda flushes with shame, following along as Izuru pulls her by the collar to her pussy. Her overzealous nature will lead to her death one day. She can’t be embarrassed with a task in front of her, and she presses apart her pussy lips with her thumb. She can see how wet Izuru is and it overwhelms her every time, the knowledge that she was the one who made her like this. She flicks her tongue against her clit and feels her thighs tightening around her head, and she settles into a rhythm with the soft sounds of Izuru’s moans encouraging her. She wants to drink in every noise she can draw out of her, her low moans as she sucks her clit into her mouth. She can feel her collar tightening again along with Izuru's thighs, the lack of air making everything in her head feel fuzzy other than Izuru. Her mind is a mantra of her name, the taste of her on her tongue, her body screaming for oxygen. It feels like every cell in her body is thrumming with Izuru, Izuru, Izuru. Even worthless whores like her can have a place, a place under the worthy, and suddenly she can breathe again but she keeps her face buried in Izuru’s cunt and keeps fucking her tongue inside her. And it’s all worth it, to see Izuru’s face contorted in pleasure, to hear her moans. This is what it means to serve.


End file.
